Of Beds and Sandwiches
by Krissy Mae Anderson
Summary: John can't sleep. Spoilers for Siege III. Slash.


_"Of Beds and Sandwiches" by Krissy Mae Anderson_

**Summary:** John can't sleep.  
**Rating:** T / Angry Green Wombat  
**Disclaimer:** The boys are not mine, alas. If they were mine, there'd be a 24-hour McShep pr0n channel.  
**Spoilers:** Suspicion, Siege Trilogy  
**Author's note:** "I am going to curl up in bed with the largest sandwich I can find." This is the quote that inspired both the fic and the icon. I've managed to write the fic early this morning, and all my betas were asleep, so forgive the lack of beta-ness, and the ranty bits.

* * *

I can't sleep. 

I haven't slept for days now. My bed has begun to gather dust, and I have forgotten what a pillow looks like. I know that I need to sleep, because I am bordering on the edge of hysteria, and if I don't close my eyes soon and turn my brain off, I'll most likely go nuts. But my brain won't turn off and I can't keep my eyes closed, because I've got an adrenaline rush to end them all. Saving the world a couple of times in one day can do that to a guy. Saving the world, and not saving the people in it. I should look at the bigger picture, but right now it's awfully hard to see. I'm also afraid to close my eyes, because I already know what my dreams will be – Ford slowly dying from the lack of the Wraith enzyme on some unknown planet, Everett dying on the hospital bed on Earth and begging me to kill him, _Daedalus_ exploding amongst the Wraith ships, and burning Atlantis sinking into the ocean, with Rodney replicating the fate of his alternate universe self.

My room feels like it belongs to someone else, someone who died when the jumper blew up, someone who is better off dead. There's a poster on the wall, a book and a lamp, a pile of clothing on the floor, things that would easily fit in a small personal effects box to be delivered after an undetermined delay, or never, to people who don't know me anymore. My hands start to shake again, and I drop down on the bed, onto the crumpled blanket I kicked off in my sleep many days ago, days that feel like centuries or millenniums, days that separate point A from point B. I feel an urge to throw something at the wall, but I have nothing to throw except "War and Peace", and the fact that I don't have enough possessions to throw at walls makes me feel even more hopeless, somehow.

My door suddenly opens, and I look up, wondering who has the nerve, or to be more precise, who is awake enough to barge in unannounced. It's Rodney, still looking just as rumpled and sleepy as the last time I saw him in the control room, with a determined expression on his face and holding a mysterious paper bag. He comes over to the bed, sits next to me, and pulls a enormous sandwich out of the bag, which he thrusts into my shaking hands, and gets another one for himself.

"Sandwich," he says, as if it explains why he's in my room. "Roast beef on rye. From the _Daedalus_." Noticing me staring at him, he rolls his eyes. "Open mouth, put in sandwich, chew." He demonstrates by taking a huge bite out of his own sandwich, and looks at me pointedly. I pick up the sandwich as if it's gonna bite me, smell it and indeed, it is real bread and real roast beef and real tomatoes and real lettuce, and it's not flashfrozen, not a ration, but an actual sandwich from Earth. I take a bite and my taste buds wake up and wonder if it's a holiday. And then I remember another sandwich, a turkey sandwich acquired through disgusting Ford with aerodynamics, and I shoot up from the bed and run for the bathroom, getting there just in time. Rodney follows me in and when I am done throwing up, he silently reaches me a damp towel. I wipe my mouth and get up from the floor, only to discover that my knees have decided to compete with my hands. Rodney notices it too, and puts an arm around my waist in case I'll manage to trip over my own to feet. He walks me to the bed, sits me down, and kneels in front of me.

"I want to hurt you for doing this to us- to me," he whispers, his hand clutching my thigh almost painfully. "Tomorrow, I'm going to tell you exactly how I feel about your self-sacrificing stunt and your need to feel guilty about absolutely everything that goes wrong in the galaxy, and you're going to sit there and listen to everything that I'm going to say. But now, we're going get out of these bio-hazardous clothes, you're going to have another bite of the sandwich, we're going to get under the covers, and we are going to sleep." Rodney is true to his word, and the moment he finishes talking he begins undoing buttons and untying shoelaces. I feel suddenly drained, but I gather up the remaining strength and unzip Rodney's shirt. Soon we're both only wearing pants, so Rodney gets me to stand up so he can take mine off, and soon we're both standing naked in the middle of my room, our clothes piled on the floor. At any other time it would have led to a highly pleasurable encounter that would make "War and Peace" rattle on the nightstand, but now it's not the time, or place for that, so Rodney just leans over and gives me a quick, tight, embrace.

We separate and head for "our" sides of the bed – Rodney has taken over the right side, my previous favorite, and get as comfortable as we can on the hard mattress. Rodney doesn't forget his promise and thrusts the paper bag into my lap, watching me like a hawk as I eat a huge BLT sandwich. After I am done, Rodney squares away the bag somewhere, and turns off the lamp. He proceeds to immediately steal the pillow, and gives my back whisker burn as he tries to get comfortable. Finally, he settles in behind me, his arm back around my waist. I put my hand on top of his, and we link our fingers.

"Good night, Rodney," I say, and Rodney mumbles a sleepy "Night" into my shoulder. Soon, I begin to feel sleepy myself, and as I drift off to sleep, with Rodney snoring quietly into my ear, I know that Rodney will be there in my dreams, and he'll stand with me and hold my hand through all the nightmares will have to offer me.


End file.
